Priscilla's Spies
aunt’s fears were well founded. But she had not yet reached the age at
which a girl thinks it desirable to be clean, tidy and well dressed
when she goes to meet a strange cousin. She treated Miss Lentaigne’s
opposition as beneath contempt.
“I must bathe,” she said, “It’s the first day of the hols.”
“Holidays,” said Miss Lentaigne.
“Sylvia Courtney,” said Priscilla, “who won the prize for English
literature at school calls them ‘hols.’”
“That,” said Sir Lucius, “settles it. The authority of any one who wins
a first prize in English literature----”
“And besides,” said Priscilla, “she said it, hols that is, to Miss
Pettigrew when she was asking when they began. She didn’t object.”
Miss Lentaigne poured out her second cup of tea in silence. Against
Miss Pettigrew’s tacit approval of the word there was no arguing. Miss
Pettigrew, the head of a great educational establishment, does more than
win, she awards prizes in English literature.
Priscilla, released from the tedium of the breakfast table, sped down
the long avenue on her bicycle. Across the handle bars was tied a
bundle, her towel and scarlet bathing dress. From the back of the
saddle, wobbling perilously, hung a much larger bundle, a new lug sail,
the fruit of hours and hours of toilsome needlework on the wet days of
the Christmas “hols.”
From the gate at the end of the avenue the road runs straight and steep
into the village. At the lower end of the village is the harbour, with
its long, dilapidated quay. This is the centre of the village life. Here
are, occasionally, small coasting steamers laden with coal or flour, and
heavy brigantines or topsail schooners which have felt their way from
distant English ports round a wildly inhospitable stretch of coast.
Here, almost always, are the bluff-bowed hookers from the outer islands,
seeking cargoes of flour and yellow Indian meal, bringing in exchange
fish, dried or fresh, and sometimes turf for winter fuel. Here are
smaller boats from nearer islands which have come in on the morning tide
carrying men and women bent on marketing, which will spread brown sails
in the evening and bear their passengers home again. Here at her red
buoy lies Sir Lucius’ smartly varnished pleasure boat, the Tortoise,
reckoned “giddy” in spite of her name by staid, cautious island folk;
but able, with her centre board and high peaked gunter lug to sail
round and round any other boat in the bay. Here, brilliantly green, lies
Priscilla’s boat, the Blue Wanderer, a name appropriate two years ago
when she was blue, less appropriate last year, when Peter Walsh made a
mistake in buying paint, and grieved Priscilla greatly by turning out
the Blue Wanderer a sober grey. This year, though the name still sticks
to her, it is less suitable still, for Priscilla, buying the paint
herself at Easter time, ordained that the Blue Wanderer should be green.
Above the quay, at the far side of the fair green, stands Brannigan’s
shop, a convenient and catholic establishment. To the left of the door
as you enter, is the shop of a publican, equipped with a bar and a
sheltering partition for modest drinkers. To the right, if you turn that
way, is a counter at which you can buy anything, from galvanised iron
rowlocks to biscuits and jam. On the low window sills of both windows
sit rows of men who for the most part earn an honest living by watching
the tide go in and out and by making comments on the boats which
approach or leave the quay. It is difficult to find out who pays them
for doing these things, but it is plain that some one does, for they are
not men of funded property, and yet they live, live comfortably, drink,
smoke, eat occasionally and are sufficiently clothed. Of only one among
them can it be said with certainty that he is in receipt of regular pay
from anybody. Peter Walsh earns five shillings a week by watching over
the Tortoise and the Blue Wanderer.
Priscilla leaped off her bicycle at the door of Bran-nigan’s shop. The
men on the window sills took no notice of her. They were absorbed in
watching the operation of warping round the head of a small steamer
which lay far down the quay. The captain had run out a hawser and
made the end of it fast to a buoy at the far side of the fair-way. A
donkey-engine on the steamer’s deck was clanking vigorously, hauling in
the hawser, swinging the head of the steamer round, a slow but deeply
interesting manoeuvre. “Peter Walsh,” said Priscilla, “is that you?” “It
is, Miss,” said Peter, “and it’s proud and pleased I am to see you home
again.” “Is the Blue Wanderer ready for me?” “She is, Miss. The minute
you like to step into her she’s there for you. There’s a new pair of
rowlocks and I’ve a nice bit of rope for a halyard for the little lug.
Is it it you have tied on the bicycle?”
“It is,” said Priscilla, “and it’s a good sail, half as big again as the
old one.”
“I’d be glad now,” said Peter, “if you’d make that same halyard fast to
the cleat on the windward side any time you might be using the sail.”
“Do you think I’m a fool, Peter?”
“I do not, Miss; but sure you know as well as I do that the mast that’s
in her isn’t over and above strong, and I wouldn’t like anything would
happen.”
“There’s no wind any way.”
“There is not; but I wouldn’t say but there might be at the turn of the
tide.”
“Haul her up to the slip,” said Priscilla. “I’ll be back again long
before the tide turns.”
The steamer swung slowly round. The rattle of her donkey-engine was
plainly audible. The warp made fast to the buoy dipped into the water,
strained taut dripping, and then dipped again. Suddenly the captain on
the bridge shouted. The engine stopped abruptly. The warp sagged deep
into the water. A small boat with one man in her appeared close under
the steamer’s bows, went foul of the warp and lay heavily listed while
one of her oars fell into the water and drifted away.
“That’s a nice sort of fool to be out in a boat by himself,” said
Priscilla.
“He was damn near having to swim for it,” said Peter, as the boat
righted herself and slipped over the warp.
“Who is he?”
“I don’t rightly know who he is,” said Peter, “but he paid four pounds
for the use of Flanagan’s old boat for a fortnight, so I’m thinking he
has very little sense.”
“He has none,” said Priscilla. “Look at him now.”
The man, deprived of one of his oars, was pushing his way along the
steamer’s side towards the quay. The captain was swearing heartily at
him from the bridge.
“Anyhow,” said Priscilla, “I haven’t time to stay here and see him
drown, though of course it would be interesting. I’m going to bathe and
I have to get back again in time to meet the train.”
Peter Walsh laid the Blue Wanderer alongside the slip. He laced the new
lug to its yard, made fast the tack and hoisted it, gazing critically
at it as it rose. Then he stepped out of the boat. Priscilla flung her
bathing-dress and towel on board and took her seat in the stern.
“You’ll find the tiller under the floor board, Miss. With the little
air of wind there is from the south you’ll slip down to Delginish easy
enough if it’s there you’re thinking of going.”
“Shove her head round now, Peter, and give her a push off. I’ll get way
on her when I’m out a bit from the slip.”
The sail flapped, bellied, flapped again, finally swung over to
starboard. Priscilla settled herself in the stern with the sheet in her
hand.
“The tide’s under you, Miss,” said Peter Walsh, “You’ll slip out easy
enough.”
The Blue Wanderer, urged by the faint southerly breeze, slid along. The
water was scarcely rippled by the wind but the tide ran strongly. One
buoy after another was passed. A large black boat lay alongside the
quay, loaded heavily with gravel. The owner leaned over his gunwale and
greeted Priscilla. She replied with friendly familiarity.
“How are you, Kinsella? How’s Jimmy and the baby? I expect the baby’s
grown a lot.”
“You’re looking fine yourself, Miss,” said Joseph Antony Kinsella. “The
baby and the rest of them is doing grand, thanks be to God.”
The Blue Wanderer slipped past. She reached one and then another of the
perches which mark the channel into the harbour. The breeze freshened
slightly. Little wavelets formed under the Blue Wandere’s bow and curled
outwards from her sides, spreading slowly and then fading away in
her wake. Priscilla drew a biscuit from her pocket and munched it
contentedly.
Right ahead of her lay the little island of Delginish with a sharply
shelving gravel shore. On the northern side of it stood two warning red
perches. There were rocks inside them, rocks which were covered at full
tide and half tide, but pushed up their brown sea-weedy backs when the
tide was low. Priscilla put down her tiller, hauled on her sheet and
slipped in through a narrow passage. She rounded the eastern corner
of the island and ran her boat ashore in a little bay. She lowered the
sail, slipped off her shoes and stockings and pushed the boat out. A few
yards from the shore, she dropped her anchor and waited till the boat
swung shorewards again to the length of her anchor rope. Then, with her
bathing-dress in her hand she waded to the land. The tide was falling.
Priscilla had been caught more than once by an ebbing tide with a boat
left high and dry. It was not an easy matter to push the Blue Wanderer
down a stretch of stony beach. Precautions had to be taken to keep her
afloat.
A few minutes later, a brilliant scarlet figure, she was wading out
again, knee deep, waist deep. Then with a joyful plunge she swam forward
through the sun-warmed water. She came abreast of the corner of her
bay, the eastern point of Delginish, turned on her back and splashed
deliciously, sending columns of glistening foam high into the air.
Standing upright with outspread hands and head thrown back, she trod
water, gazing straight up into the sky. She lay motionless on her back,
totally immersed save for eyes, nostrils and mouth. A noise of oars
roused her. She rolled over, swam a stroke or two, and saw Flanagan’s
old boat come swiftly down the channel. The stranger, who had courted
disaster by fouling the steamer’s warp, tugged unskilfully at his oars.
He headed for the island. Priscilla shouted to him.
“Keep out,” she said. “You’re going straight for the rocks.”
The young man in the boat turned round and stared at her.
“Pull your right oar,” said Priscilla.
The young man pulled both oars hard, missed the water with his right
and fell backwards to the bottom of the boat. His two feet stuck up
ridiculously. Priscilla laughed. The boat, swept forward by the tide,
grounded softly on the sea wrack which covered the rocks.
“There you are, now,” said Priscilla. “Why didn’t you do what I told
you?”
The young man struggled to his feet, seized an oar and began to push
violently.
“That’s no use,” said Priscilla, swimming close under the rocks. “You’ll
have to hop out or you’ll be stuck there till the tide rises, and that
won’t be till swell on in the afternoon.”
The young man eyed the water doubtfully. Then he spoke for the first
time.
“Is it very deep?” he said.
“Where you are,” said Priscilla, “it’s quite shallow, but if you step
over the edge of the rock there’s six foot of water and more.”
The young man sat down and began to unlace his boots.
“If you wait to do that,” said Priscilla, “you’ll be high and dry
altogether. Never mind your boots. Hop out and shove.”
He stepped cautiously over the side of his boat, seized his gunwale
and shoved. The boat slipped off the rock, stern first. The young man
staggered, loosed his hold on her and then stood gaping helplessly,
ankle deep in water perched on a very slippery rock, while the boat
slipped away from him, stemming the tide as long as the impulse of his
push lasted.